


Fuck Saul

by rattlehead



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26309839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattlehead/pseuds/rattlehead
Summary: Slash is in the middle of a bender, contemplates life, gets high.
Kudos: 2





	Fuck Saul

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is totally a vent piece and none of this reflects slash’s actual personal values :) i have no clue if he actually suffered with depression or self harm, but he’s who i decided to insert into the story.
> 
> this work may be extremely triggering, so if you are dealing with something like suicidal thoughts or drug abuse, please, PLEASE, reach out to somebody. it’s no joke. there are so many resources you can contact if you don’t trust anyone in your personal life. you are worth something.

_How the fuck did I get here?_

_Who am I?_

_I fucking hate myself._

Slash could hardly get his head straight. He couldn’t fucking focus on anything more than a foot ahead of him. He felt numb, but alive and buzzing at the same time. His heartbeat had left his actual heart and moved up to pound against his brain.

He was lying on the bathroom floor, back slumped against the sink cabinets. He was pretty sure it was his bathroom, but, honestly, it could have been anyones. The paintings on the wall across from him looked familiar, but the longer he stared, the less familiar they became.

It took a moment to recognize, but he was in pain. His muscles were weak and felt like jelly, his brain wouldn’t stop _fucking pounding_ , and he felt like he could hurl at any second. Scratch that, he felt like he could hurl _now._

Slash struggled to pull himself the meager two feet to the toilet, his sweaty palms burned against the cold tile floor.

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He willed his arms to rest on the sides of the seat, bringing his face parallel to the bowl. He was staring back at an orange pool of blood, whiskey, and the little food he ate that day. Fuck, the sight alone made him double the contents of the foul concoction.

Thick saliva dripped from his mouth, getting caught in his tangled excuse for hair. He wiped the strand away with the palm of his hand, paying no mind to the streak of blood it left behind.

_Fuck._

Slash slid back to press himself against the wall, knocking his head against it in the process. Normally, he’d cringe at the pain, but it was nothing compared to the agony he was already in.

_I wish I were dead._

_Fuck, no I don’t._

His thoughts ran faster than he could keep up with. It was like he was in a crowded room of people he hardly knew. Everyone was having their own individual conversation, but not one of them involved him.

The pain would subside, Slash knew that...

_Are you Slash or Saul?_

...but, in the moment, he wished he were dead.

_Fuck Saul._

When his brain finally caught up with the situation, his first thought was:

_I should see a doctor._

And immediately after that, his next thought was:

_I should get high._

A hurricane of impulses swirled around in his skull, get high, see a doctor, get high, see a doctor. He had no time to rationalize any of it, and decided that getting high would simply be easier. Despite the fact that drugs were what got him into this situation in the first place.

_Just enough to take the edge off._

He needed a release. _Anything_ to get the pain to just… stop.

Miraculously, the prospect of getting a buzz allowed himself to get a sort of ‘hysterical strength’, a boost of adrenaline that let him pull himself up onto his feet.

Right on the bathroom counter lay a tray of cocaine, a few razor blades, and a few other drug related objects. It didn’t matter, his focus was on the coke and razors.

_Fucking junkie._

Slash didn’t _want_ to die. Atleast, he didn’t think so. But if he _happened_ to die, it wouldn’t be much of a loss.

He felt trapped in his own skin. Forced to live a life of suffering that he had brought upon himself. He wanted to get out.

A shaking hand picked up one of the razor blades, but before he could do anything, he caught a glance of his reflection in the mirror. 

He looked like shit. Leaning in to get a better look, his eyes were forced to focus a bit. His hair was in a state, and he most certainly wasn’t looking forward to brushing it out in the morning. A hand subconsciously dragged across his cheek, caressing the stubbled skin and pulling at the bags under his eyes. 

It felt like he was staring at his face for hours, poking and prodding at the warm, tan skin. His eyelids were red and puffy, complimenting well with his bloodshot scleras and dilated pupils. In a moment of hopelessness, he brought the blade against one of his scarred wrists and slowly dragged it against the skin. He hadn’t cut himself in a while, he thought he was past that coward shit, but it felt too good. It was reassuring to know he could control at least a fraction of his pain.

The stinging sensation of the humid air attacking his open wounds made him forget about that damned headache. It was good. He finally felt his heartbeat return to where it belonged, but the tunnel vision did not subside.

Sporadic streams of blood fell down his wrist, leaving an occasional droplet on the tiled counter and floor. His eyes screwed shut, and he let his arm fall down to his side, letting the bloodied razor clang back onto the tray. A moment of bliss before the high.

After a few deep breaths to get himself refocused, Slash picked up the bag of coke and turned his wrist upwards. He tapped out a couple lines into the angry red cuts, sharply inhaling at the satisfying sting.

His hooded eyes admired how quickly the fine white powder absorbed the thick red liquid, leaving a gradient of blood throughout.

He shook out a bit more cocaine onto his arm, using his hand to firmly press it into the wounds. He felt normal again, whatever that means. The pain in his temples was finally replaced with the much more desirable light-headedness, and he sighed in relief.

Along with the clouded feeling in his brain, he suddenly was aware of how exhausted his legs were from holding himself up, and promptly fell back onto the floor, right where he was just moments later. 

_Tomorrow would be better._

It was sort of an empty promise to himself, but it was all he could manage before shutting his eyes and blacking out completely.

**Author's Note:**

> while this was a vent piece, i’d sort of like to add a part two of someone coming along and comforting slash. idk yet, we’ll see :)


End file.
